


in which dave strider talks to his laptop

by asterisco



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Car Accident, Character Death, F/F, Humanstuck, Karkat Vantas - Freeform, M/M, Sadstuck, Sollux Captor - Freeform, fluff maybe, ghost!John, non-sburb AU, too much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisco/pseuds/asterisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out maybe ghosts can love, too.</p><p>John is dead. Jade is dead.</p><p>Dave is broken, but he suddenly finds his best friend again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea late at night, mainly thinking it'd be cool if ghosts could possess computers and other electronics
> 
> Oh, this is mainly the prologue, though.

In Which Dave Strider Dates His Computer

The apartment smells like homemade sugar cookies. John knew how to make them from scratch, due to his absolute resolution to never use Betty Crocker baked goods. Or recipes, for that matter. You remember back when he was still teaching himself, and evenings spent eating mountains on mountains of failed cookies.

The smell of cookies isn't strong. It's mixed with apple juice, cheap beer, and buttered popcorn.

You two didn't need much. The most expensive item you owned was John's grand piano, all glossy black finish and real ivory keys. It must've cost a fortune, but he had inherited it from his nanna when she passed away. She had shared his love for the instrument and it was written to him in her will.

You vaguely remember his nanna, remember visiting his house, nine years old, and there being twice as many snacks to eat and her being there and John proudly introducing you as "My best friend, Dave!". You remember feeling strangely warm inside as she patted your cheek and offered you some apple pie. She had John's blue eyes and was kind of pretty, for an older lady. The wrinkles on her face mapped out years of smiling.

You two had trouble finding a place for the huge piano in your tiny apartment. You finally captchalogued everything in the living room in frustration, pushed the piano on a wall next to your turntables and right below the window, and refurnished accordingly.

Your apartment was never really much. But John had made it perfect. Now, standing alone, you see it's empty, empty, empty of him, empty of meaning.

You aren't crying, though you were earlier. No use in tears. He'd hate it if you were crying.

You have just come back from his funeral service, and him being dead suddenly feels real for the third time.

The first time was holding him, screaming like a lunatic as rust filled your nose and bile rose in your throat and red seeped everywhere. Jade's green eyes were already lifeless, her face pale and bloodless, and you heard your name pass his lips. He inhaled once and never exhaled again, and your screams came back, ripping your throat, a steaming car wreck behind you, you being dragged away.

The second time was seeing Rose lose composure. Your sister came to your apartment, all no nonsense and dressed in a black blouse, took one glance at the piano, at the messy floors, at the posters slapped all over the wall, and her face contorted in sobs as no sound escaped her throat. Two of your best friends, two of her best friends, were completely wiped off the earth. You hugged her, stroked her hair, tried to murmur assurances that neither of you believed. After a heartbeat of silence, you slumped in her arms and started crying yourself. The whole scene was nothing short of pathetic, and you and Rose initiated Strider-Lalonde Rule of Brother/Sister Negotiations; Amendment Sixteen -- If gross sobbing was involved, it is not to be spoken of ever again.

And now, alone after a parade of condolences and flowers and hugs and handshakes, the thoughts _he's gone, he's not home, hes gone, hesgone, hesgonehesgonehesgone_ hits hard again, threatening to choke you and crush your chest and steal away the floor under your feet, hurtling backwards into a pitch black sea.

Instead of letting that happen, you fix yourself a peanut butter sandwich, pop open a can of Pepsi (there wasn't any Coke in stock), and flip open your laptop to plunge yourself in synthesized beats.


	2. in which plot commences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which... the plot begins.

You're logging into some third-party music sharing site to upload your latest mix, when an error message appears on your screen.

_"check word you huge dick!"_

...Wait, what.

Frowning at the strange message, you wonder if Sollux pulled some weird hacker shit on your laptop.

X-ing off the window, you type in your password and receive a blank black captcha. Weird. You refresh it. Nothing.

"How'm I supposed to log in if your fucking captcha isn't workin'?" you grumble to... well not yourself. You grumble to the website. You refresh it again, and appearing in the box in neat type were the words "check word".

Freaky shit.

You're about to shut your laptop, maybe get a beer instead of another soda, when your word window opens by itself. The cursor suddenly has a life of its own, rolling over the save button, looping around, and suddenly type appears on the document itself.

_i didn't know i could do that, hehe._

You stare blankly at the screen, not sure what the fuck was going on. You fumble for your shades that were hanging on your shirt collar and shove them on your face.

You aren't sure why exactly you did that.

Nothing else appears on the screen, and you decide to do something somewhat insane.

You start typing in the document.

'what the flying sea turtles'

Yeah, yeah. You don't understand either.

_hi, dave. i had to fucking pull up word for you since you were too busy being stupid!_

what is going on here

_uhm, it's me, dave. it's john._

You freeze. That's it. It's a hack. Sure, it's pretty fucking elaborate, even for Sollux, but it has to be. You're being fucked with, and you even _fell_ for it, like the huge idiot you are.

"this is fucking low even for you captor", you type, slamming the laptop shut and stalking to your room. Sure, he was a douche, but joking about John? It's been a week. It's too soon.

Really, it'll always be too soon.

You return to the laptop at one am. It's not like you can sleep anyways. You never could.

You open your screen and see the document still up. Things have been added to it.

Actually, that's an understatement.

_what? dave, this isn't some dumb joke!_

_it's really me, dave._

_shit, you left._

_this isn't fair!_

_well, okay. i guess you must be... really confused, huh??_

_haha, 'cause I'm dead._

You grit your teeth. How far is this going to go?

_but. i guess i'm a ghost?_

_i've been... watching you, haha._

_creepy, huh?_

_i guess i should've contacted you sooner..._

Just before you close the document, another sentence catches your eye.

_i mean, i've just hung out here... watching. i even saw you and rose crying!_

Waitwaitwait.

No one fucking knew that, _no one._

_but anyways, dave._

_i'm sorry. i'm so fucking sorry._

_i'm sorry for bumping that asshole on the road. i was driving. i mean... jade died. i killed her. and i just left you like that._

_i'm sorry, dave._

_i hope you don't hate me._

_i'll um, just wait until you come back._

_i guess i should've been more serious earlier huh? i thought maybe if i joked around like i used to, maybe you'd believe me. stupid._

You stare at that, fingers poised over your keyboard, and you finally type.

'you there'

_i'm always here!_

'prove youre john'

Biting your lip, you wait for any response. A few minutes pass, and you still haven't looked away. You're starting to think he's left when the cursor moves, almost tentatively.

_um. wow._

_i have a birthmark above my right hipbone?_

'anyone whos slept with him would know that'

You can't help but type that, and your lips curve into a smirk. Wait shit you're smiling.

That's new.

_geez, dave! i've never slept with anyone, and you know that!_

_anyways, um... i know you have a huge photo album hidden in the closet with pictures of your friends!_

_you huge softie._

'wait you knew that

how

why'

_i found it when i was cleaning the closet!_

_you even gave me a special section, hehe._

'shit'

Okay, what if you were somehow talking to Egbert's ghost.

It's just like him. The nuances of his speech patterns, the fact that he knows about that stupid album.

It feels so much like him, you're almost petrified by a sudden and intense longing to see his face, you can easily imagine letting your eyes flutter shut and have his smile carved underneath your eyelids.

_dave?_

_are you okay?_

'egbert

please

tell me its fucking you'

_i._

_it's me, dave._

You slump forward, pressing your forehead against the screen. You realize you're laughing and crying at the same time.

Totally uncool, but that doesn't matter.

He's there, Egbert's there, his fucking _ghost_ is haunting your laptop or whatever but he's there, and you talk to him. You press your fingertips to the screen, curl them into a tight fist.


	3. in which john does creepy shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My chapter titles aren't creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, geez. Thanks for all the feedback. Shit was pretty screwy, but hopefully it's all in order now.
> 
> And geez this chapter is also on the short side shoot me the next one will be longer

It's not like you aren't still skeptical. However, you don't really care if it's real or not anymore.

'jeez so  
hows the afterlife I guess'

_boring! it's fun watching you, though._

You wrinkle your nose and tap out a satisfying reply.

'weve been living together for what three years  
is my ass more fun to watch all of a sudden'

_jeez, no. to tell the truth, you haven't been fun to watch at all._

'sorry for being all doom and gloom'

There's pause. Both of you are hesitating, as if deliberating whether or not making light of the whole situation is best.

Instead, you both completely avoid the subject, which usually works.

\---

 

Before you know it, you've fallen into a routine with him again. He's never asleep. You spend hours talking to him through a word document, and occasionally look up to see it's three o'clock. John tries to gently urge you to sleep.

'no nah i cant'

_come on, i can help?_

'are you gonna do some weird voodoo ghost power on me'

_no, no. hold on._

The lamp lighting your desk flickers, and your living room light turns on. A static-filled noise escapes your television speakers, and you feel energy crackle through the air. The noise grows louder. It sounds like tires squealing on wet cement, nails screaming when scratching a chalkboard, and there's another, more distant noise underneath it all that is reminiscent of screaming, faint and clearly there. The noise grates and claws through your head, curls icy fingers around your spine. You realize your hands are clamped over your ears, and the activity all abruptly stops.

You turn to the laptop screen, which is madly flickering. John messes with the screen settings to get your attention at times it startled you the first time he did it, but it's now akin to your phone vibrating in your pocket or a notification noise ringing.

_oh, geez. that didn't go well._

'you think  
the fuck was that'

_it was supposed to be, uh. i was trying to transmit my voice through the speakers._

'that was not your fucking voice  
either that or it was you learning to read some of roses more obscure texts'

_ughh._

'just lay off the paranormal activity shit'

_i didn't mean to freak you out._

'nah it didnt really freak me'

That's a bit of a lie. Fuck the police.

'it just reminded me that youre a ghost i guess'

_is that bad?_

'nah  
it actually isnt  
i need some sort of reminder that we arent thirteen year olds chatting on pesterchum'

_wait. let me just.  
try something else._

there's the same crackle of energy in the air, you swear you feel something brush against your arm, and a single, ringing note plays.

Oh god is he--

A simple melody hangs in the air, unseen hands dance over keys. He's playing the piano. The song sounds familiar, and you think it's something he liked to play frequently. The screen flickers.

_lie in bed._

You stare at it for a couple minutes, shake your head, and head to the bedroom. Instead of lying down, you pulls a pillow and blanket off the bed and curl up on the couch instead.

You remember it now. You haven't heard this song in ages, but he used to play this song to help you sleep some nights.

Instead of depressing you, it makes your chest feel a tad lighter. It's like before. He's real, he's real, he's right here as always.

You're asleep before you know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit fluffy around the edges, but fluff is in the tags.
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading!


	4. in which there is still damn exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John messes with his ghostly abilities, Dave humors him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good golly, where are all these kudos coming from.
> 
> Thanks for reading and the feedback, guys! I'm planning on updating this frequently, once a day-- maybe twice.

You awake, and John's curled next to you. It's fucking cold. You see your breath in the air. That's alright, John's there and maybe you can casually hug him for warmth and that's funny his skin is really smooth and feels like ice--

Waitwaitwait.

Hold up. John is lying next to you. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted slightly, his overbite peeking over his lower lip, and he's really fucking cold.

You shriek (you would later call it a manly yelp) and sit upright. John's body floats up a bit, blankets hanging off him before simply going through his visage and flop on the floor.

He was solid just a couple seconds ago, but now looks transparent. You're not sure, but you can guess that if you tried to touch him your hand would go clean through. He looks faded, like someone stuck an Egbert in the laundry machine and he came out with the colors faded out.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open. You both stare at each other dumbfounded and you can't help but notice that his eyes are just as vibrant as before of maybe it's because the rest of him looks so washed out. A tentative, shy smile plays on his lips. "Can you... see me..?"

It's his voice, but it sounds like he's yelling at you with your head underwater. The sound is distorted and muffled, but discernible. You slowly nod, not caring ow much of an idiot you look, eyes the size of dinner plate and your jaw hanging off your face. His smile grows and he's showing teeth, and it's one of his shit-eating grins of unbridled joy. He wore that grin when you said you could visit Washington when you were fifteen, he wore it the day you two moved into this shitty apartment, the day he got a part-time job working at an animal shelter. He throws his arms up in the air. "I did it! It worked! Itworkeditworkeditworked!" he flies around you in circles, and you have no idea what to say.

"...What worked?" Geez, Strider. Wasn't that an intelligent question.

"I finally got you to see me! It took a lot of concentration, but I did it." His grin doesn't disappear, and you don't expect it to anytime soon.

Funny, you never expected being able to see it again.

"I mean, I didn't even expect you to hear me, but it's like an added bonus, y'know? Oh, geez this is really cool. It's just like before!"

You don't have the heart to say no, it isn't like before his voice sounds funny and strained and he's too pale and cold and it's impossible to touch him

He looks back at you, and his smile slips a bit. "...Dave?"

You clear your throat. "Yeah. I mean, good job, bro."

His brow furrows, and you see that little crease he gets between His eyebrows when they bunch together. Shit, you notice these little things about him, even now. "Well, you look upset," he says softly. He's floating in front of you so that you two are at eye level, and his legs are crossed in a sitting position.

"I'm okay," you say with a shrug.

John looks skeptical, and dissipates into the air as you leave to get yourself a poptart for breakfast.

\---

"I'm going to get food!" you yell at your couch. John isn't visible at the moment, but he was chatting with you via your laptop and you swore you felt him sitting next to you.

You need to get food, and more napkins for that matter. You haven't left the house for nine days straight. You grimace at the thought of facing other sole again, and hope you won't run into anyone you know.

You shrug off your jacket as you head for the door. That's right, you wear a jacket indoors. It's June, and even in Washington it can get fairly hot. Not in your apartment. Thanks to John, you save tons on electric bills. There's a tap on your shoulder.  You know by now not to squeal--erm, yelp. You turn and he's floating in your face again, all puppy-dog eyes and you're already skeptical of whatever he wants.

"What is it?"

"I want to go with you."

That takes you by surprise. The first thing you string into a coherent sentence is "Can you?"

John nods. "I think so! I have the energy to, and there really isn't anything tying me down in this apartment, besides maybe you."

You shrug. "Well, let me get a leash. I don't want you running away," you tease and he snickers.

"Totally, I'm gonna find someone who feeds me more."

"You don't eat."

"...Uh. Someone with a better taste in movies."

You don't worry about him being seen. He doubt other people could see him. Or maybe they could? He seems to wonder about that, too. "I wonder if I can just... casually float behind you, haha."

You shrug. "If people can see you, they'll took one look at our face and think they've been drugged and are now having a nightmarish acid trip, complete with dumb looking Egberts trailing cool guys around."

"I think you mixed up some adjectives there."

"Shut up, we're going."

You two chat as you walk out your apartment to the car, and at least three people stare at you. Guess they think you're talking to yourself.

"They can't see me," John murmurs in your ear as you step into your high rise's elevator lobby. (You prefer to take the stairs, but the lobby's by the entrance.) You glance to the side, but you don't see him either. 

"Where are you?"

"Just hangin'."

That simple sentence is enough to roll your eyes, and you're not surprised when you look up at the ceiling and see him sitting on it, upside down, his messy hair waving slightly, as if he was underwater.

"You look stupid," you say, and he snorts and disappears from your vision. You feel an icy hand brush your fingertips, and you cling to it.

To keep track of him, of course.

You aren't going to keep clinging to old affections.

It seems like the five minute walk to your car in the parking lot lasts way too long.

Okay, Dave Strider. Get your shit together.

We are going shopping.

\----

"I wonder if Jade's still here," John murmurs, and you almost drop the box of Lucky Charms in your hands. You've tried not to think to much about Jade, but now it hurts again. He isn't visible at the moment, so you can't glare at him from behind your clunky aviators. Instead, you give a noncommittal grunt.

"I mean... in movies and books and stuff, ghosts remain on Earth because of like, lingering attachments or unfinished business or something!"

"Life isn't always like a movie." You place the cereal box in shopping basket hanging on your arm and search for more poptarts. You like poptarts. They take zero preparation, and it's basically the Wonder Food for lazy pieces of shit like you. John always did most of the cooking.

"Well, yeah, that's true. But some things are. Like ghosts." John grins cheekily at that, because he knows there's no way you can retort truthfully to that now.

"Like ghosts," you say, resigned, and head to the dairy aisle. Milk.

"I don't think Jade's the type to have unfinished business, though. I mean, she was always so nice."

"Why do you think you're here?" The questions escapes your mouth, a bit louder than you intended. A middle aged woman with a cart packed with low-fat yogurt gives you a withering look, one you return. Yoplait sucks, she has no right to judge.

John is quiet, and you hope you haven't upset him. However, when he speaks again his voice has a smile in it. "I don't really know. I just knew that I'm glad I'm still here. I feel like I'm breaking rules to talk and interact with you, but I don't care. We're going to be bros forever."

Something tugs at your chest. You ignore it. "You're a ghost. You make your own rules, right?"

You don't see John, but you can tell he's shrugging.


	5. in which john isn't alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter again.
> 
> Would you guys rather short chapters and daily updates or long chapters with less frequent updates?

You're about to head to checkout when you notice it's unusually cold again. You rub your bare arms and feel goosebumps, the fine hairs down the back of your neck standing up. You look left and right. No one else seems to look cold.

"God dammit, John. Turn the warm back on."

"It isn't me!" his voice protests. You decide the best course of action is to ignore the temperature drop (you're most likely going crazy) and get the hell out of there.

You would have done just that if you hadn't turned and bumped into flat, broad-shouldered chest. You look up, and two deep-set, dark eyes on a face with a rather prominent chin stare wearily into yours.

This man is tall.

He's also icy cold.

You jerk back, cursing and two different mothers (one has a short girl with a lollipops in her mouth, the other carrying an infant) glower at you. They aren't the first ones today. You're too busy staring to care.

He shakes his head, turns, and you see an open, bleeding gash on his back, his black shirt ripped around it. Suddenly John is next to you, and you almost stop flipping your shit.

Almost.

You somehow manage to pay and you run out, slamming open your car's door, sitting at the driver's seat, and turning in it to stare open-mouthed at John. He's looking at you with that little crease between his eyebrows and his still-bright eyes filled with concern.

"What the hell was that?" you demand, and you realizing you're gasping for breath from running across the parking lot.

"I-I..."

"You saw him too, right?"

"The big guy? O-of course I did! How couldn't I?"

"He's dead, isn't he?" it isn't really a question. He was just as cold and washed as John, there was the same difference in energy around him, and that wound-

"I'd bet he is..." John says and his voice is much more certain than his words.

"What, are there ghosts walking around everywhere? Do I suddenly see ghosts now?"

John shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know!"

He's just as confused as you are, and he's just as freaked and you know that. You allow your shoulders to slump a bit- they were tense before- and look down. "...Sorry." You can't say anything else. His pale hand reaches for yours and you flinch away. He doesn't look startled, but his eyes look sad as he dissipates.

You sit in your car, and the heat clicks on. You don't bother to turn it back off, though it makes no difference in the car's temperature.

It's him trying to apologize.

"Sorry," you say again. The radio clicks on. It's set on the station that plays nothing but the stuff on the top of the charts. You both like hardly anything that plays on the station, but you somehow manage to remember any song after hearing it once and often flipped to this station when you two sat in the car, singing along loudly and purposely off-key to every song that comes on. He'd punch your arm and tell you to cut it out, and you'd happily ignore him.

"Are you gonna sing along?" His voice is in your ear. For a second, you're angry at him again. He wants everything to be normal, just like before and you want it too but it can't be same, it's impossible.

A rather corny love ballad is on, and you hum along for the hell of it.

You're nearly shouting it by the time you get to the chorus, and you're laughing despite yourself and you can hear him singing, too.

You start driving.

You reach your apartment soon enough and park, looking at the passenger seat. He's sitting there, and smiling at you widely.

You both sit and stare at each other for a full five minutes, like the idiots you are.

At the end of those five minutes, you promptly burst into tears.


	6. in which another johndave trope is filled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie marathons, ahoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I actually typed this chapter on the laptop and the result is a longer chapter.
> 
> Wow, who would've known?
> 
> *EDIT nope is still infuriatingly short //facekeyboardlkfdsklsd
> 
> well it's 3:44 am i might as well catch some Zs before its too late

You wake up on your living room floor, your radio on and buzzing with static and strains of guitar music. You wonder vaguely what time it is.

Your watch reads ten AM. Welp.

Thank god you've been off work.

Both your Bro and Mr. Egbert have been sending money. Even after the accident, the checks didn't stop. You wonder if he's doing out of pity. He sends about two hundred dollars a month. It's far from a fortune, but that, plus your Bro's irregularly sent checks and John's part-time job, (along with you pitching in with cash you earn from various odd jobs and your webcomics) you always had enough to get by.

You suppose you ought to start work again, but you seriously want nothing more to (in the words of Rose Lalonde herself) "wallow in a puddle of justified despair and pity, for both this shitty world and yourself".  
  
“You awake?” John is suddenly sitting next to you, floating in a reclining position in the air.  
  
You nod, rub the sleep out of your eyes, and smirk. “Sorry, Egbert. I'm not drawing you like my French girls.”  
  
“Aw, and I was totally looking forward to it!” His lower lip juts out in a semi-convincing pout, and you roll your eyes.  
  
“I save my talents for beautiful women. It's nothing personal.”  
  
“So, it's because I'm not pretty?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
He snorts and sits on you, mostly because he knows how much you hate the cold and it seems to him to be suitable payback. He's in that strange in-between phase, where he feels almost-solid and is a weight on your chest (literally) but will evaporate on contact with your skin. You usually wear long sleeves, anyway. You don't mind.  
  
It's just unsettling to see your hand pass through him at times.  
  
“So, what are we doing today?” He's floating off you and fading into the air, flying around in circles 'till you can't see him anymore. He moves to the piano and starts to play.  
  
He's constantly in motion, moving and changing things. It's like he's posting reminders everywhere, that “JOHN'S STILL HERE” and will be for a while. It's not like you'll ever forget, but it seems to comfort him and you don't want to stop that. He starts playing the piano--or more accurately, pressing random keys rhythmically.  
  
“What do you want to do?” You finally reply, and the jarring notes stop.  
  
“I don't know! I just want to hang out with you.”  
“You hang out with me plenty. You live here.”  
  
Your arm is hit with a blast of cold air, and you make a huge show of rolling your eyes and shrugging. You get another blast “for being a huge smartass”.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean.” You force yourself into a sitting position, your spine popping when you straighten it. “Well, I'm not planning on going out today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”  
  
He appears in front of you again, sitting crisscross-applesauce in front of you and leaning forward. “Is this because of that guy you saw?”  
  
“He had a gaping hole in his back, I have the right to not want to see something similar again.”  
  
“Sorry...”  
  
You mumble “s'okay, s'not your fault” though you do get the idea that him being with you had something to do with it. It's not like seeing dead people walk around at the grocery store is a common occurrence to you.

 

“Yeah, well...” He gnaws on his lower lip. “How 'bout we watch some movies together?”

 

He's doing it again. He never stops pretending everything's the same but you play along because you're scared to talk about what's different. You don't want to realize he's dead for a fourth time.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
You two bicker over what to watch, and you finally settle on _Ghostbusters_ because there are so many dumb things about it and it'll make starting up banter easy for both of you.  
  
Instead of arguing over the unrealistic love interest tumor, you both watch, and you have to turn your head at some parts so he can't see you crack a grin at a particularly funny line.  
  
That is, funny by it's low standard of comedy.  
  
You two somehow turn it into a movie marathon. John likes to disappear when he's leaning on your shoulder or pressing up against you, and it's odd to feel the contact become less and less solid and suddenly disappear. You floats a lot and flickers the lights on and off to adventure music, makes popcorn and is unable to balance the bowl.  
  
By the time you're drifting to sleep in the middle of Breakfast at Tiffany's, he's exhausted from the energy he's used to appear and become solid on-and-off all day. He murmurs goodnight to you, and you hardly answer because you're drifting to sleep as well.  
  
The next morning, you wake up to an oddly tidied-up living room and the smell of pancakes and bacon. Your eyes crack open, yet you already know and dread what you'll see.  
  
Standing in the kitchen, pouring a fresh cup of orange juice and flipping another flapjack on the stove, is Rose.  
  
She shoots you a glance.  
  
“Good morning, Dave. I've made us breakfast.”  
  
You resist the urge to flip your shit and abscond the fuck out of your own apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brb flipping shit at how beautiful and perfect you readers are
> 
> *facetouches you all*


	7. in which pancakes are made and consumed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose is a snarky broad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I finished this chapter alknsnwla
> 
> I suppose you can tell I really love all different rehashings of the phrase "flip my/your shit".
> 
> I'm new to writing Rose, and I hope she's in character.
> 
> this chapter feels really rushed and sloppy to me i should edit it

Dave: Flip your shit and abscond the fuck out of your apartment.

You can't abscond the fuck out of your apartment because good god do those pancakes smell good. Rose is the damn pancake queen and she knows it. You are fully aware it's a trap, but your first home-cooked meal in weeks is calling your name.

Rose Lalonde is an evil, evil, woman.

"Good morning, David," she repeats, raising one of her perfectly-shaped eyebrows. "Has the metaphorical cat made off with your tongue?

"How are you here?" you blurt.

"Spare key. You presented it to me yourself."

That you did. You knew she would take advantage of it.

"Yeah, well- why?

"Am I not allowed to feel and act on concerns for my dear sibling? It's as if you want us to have no contact whatsoever." She cocks her head towards the tiny, two-seated table in the corner of the living room. It's an order.

You sit down.

She walks slowly towards you, a plate of pancakes balanced on her left hand in a manner that looks ridiculously easy. There's a glass of juice in her other hand. "It's as if you don't appreciate our lovely and tightly-woven sibling bond. But I know how important that is to both of us." She smiles, her eyes glittering with her own brand of mirth you can never tell is malicious or not.

You would be nervous if you weren't busy staring at the pancakes. She has made them as irresistible as possible, syrup poured over it artfully and a dollop of butter still melting on the top. Pancakes should only be allowed to look that good in commercials for shitty diners that are never good as they are commercially advertised. Pancakes that perfect should not exist.

Rose Lalonde is a wickedly manipulative woman.

"Do you want some?" She asks innocently, raising her fork. On it is speared a perfect, bite-sized portion of fluffy breakfast batter-fuck there isn't enough ways to describe pancakes.

You can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed by your head nodded furiously. Yes you do want pancakes, preferably now.

She gets up, and a just-as-beautiful plate is placed in front of you, complete with a glass of apple juice with beads of condensation rolling down the sides. You tear into the pancakes eargerly, acutely aware of her piercing amethyst eyes boring hole clean through your skull. Goodbye, cognitive functions. Rose's laser eyes have melted you. Is that some brain juice leaking out of your skull? Obviously.

“How are you?”

“Just all appreciatin' our family bonds and whatnot. You can leave the pancakes on the way out.”

“What are you hiding?” You choke and gulp down a swig of apple juice.

“I'm hiding nothing!” John is nowhere to be seen or heard, but a breeze blows through the room.

_“Rose?”_

Rose shudders. “It's awfully cold in here. How high on is the air conditioner?”

You shrug, and she stands up to raise the temperature on thermostat. John is suddenly standing by the table, his visage flickering and his eyes weary.

Rose looks back at you. “So? Are you going to tell me what you're hiding, or must I slowly and painfully extract it from you, as I must with everything else?”

John stares at you, his eyes bright with hope. _“Can you at least tell her?”_

She'll think you're crazy.

She probably already think you're crazy.

She'll probably diagnose you with some psychological schizophrenia.

“...Egbert's here.”

Rose's expression doesn't change. “What makes you say that?”

“Because. He's here. I've- I've talked to him.”

Rose's face becomes sympathetic. She leans over to pat you cheek. “I understand how much you miss them, but--”

“I'm not seeing things.”

You lock eyes, and you guess it must be the certainty in your voice that wins her over. “I... suppose... that it could happen...” She looks down, and takes her bottom lip, covered in black lipstick, between her teeth and worries it softly. She never does that, unless deep in thought. She's thinking of the best way to herd you into a loony bin, for sure. She finally takes a deep breath. “our family has been known for having connections to the supernatural. Mother's best friend was, for a few years, a unicorn with a liking for carrot cake.” She coughs.

“You're screwing with me.”

Rose nods. “I am.”

“So you think I'm losing my head?”

“No.”

She stands up to put your empty plates in the sink. You stare at your empty placemat and listen to the sound of running water. John does nothing to prove his existence.

“However, I wasn't joking about us having a connection with the supernatural.” Rose gathers her things in her purse, drying her hands daintily with a dish towel. “I'll come back tonight. You ought to clean this place up, I'm bringing a friend.”

With that, she's gone.

\---

You later ask John why he didn't do anything.

He says he couldn't.

You ask if he couldn't, or didn't want to.

He doesn't answer.


	8. in which ghost powers arent for cleaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, because the next one is loooong(ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, gee. Sorry about the pause between updates. I've been busy (playingvisualnovels).

The first thing you do when you can no longer hear the heels of Rose's shoes clicking down the hallway's tile is help yourself to the rest of the pancakes. You jokingly offer John some and he feigns hurt.

"You culturally insensitive asshole. Wh-"

You cut in. "So now we're from different cultures-"

He shoves the palm of his hand toward your face. "Don't interrupt. What if I spend days on end, gazing lustfully at food, dreaming of Rose's pancakes, which I shall never taste again? And you just... rub it in. Check your privilege, you're a white, cis, living male."

"You forgot straight."

"What? Straight? Who?" He makes a huge show of looking around, and after a beat you're laughing more than what is acceptable for you. This whole situation and conversation is ridiculous.

John offers to help you tidy up, even though you were planning on shoving the boxers on the floor into the washing machine and calling it quits. However, you're curious to see how he'll do it. He's able to nice things within a foot radius around him, but usually just concentrates to make him hands and arms solid and uses those. However, he's a painfully slow worker so you leave him to the living room and work on everything else.

You're done before he is. He got distracted by making a broom and mop rub up against each other. You have to comment on that, but he says that they're slow dancing. "Geez, Dave. Get your head outta the gutter!"

"Sorry, it' stuck there. There's gross leafy water matting my hair and everything. I'm at the point of no return. The gutter and my head are one."

"Geez, you are so dumb." 

You stick your tongue out at him, which completely proves his point.

Between the two of you, your apartment manages to transition from "what is this mancave" to "bachelor pad". It's a substantial transformation nonetheless. Perhaps Rose will wiggle in a few more emotions towards you other than contempt and pity. Perhaps dry amusement at your efforts. That'll do.

John looks awfully proud of the living room. It's nearly spotless, which is something you can't say for... any of the rooms you cleaned. 

"Let's see what Rose has to say about this, huh?" He grins widely at you. You roll your eyes.

"Stop gloating, your head's near exploding from swelling." He responds my throwing a chip bowl at you. Good thing you finished your doritos. "Rude, man."

"Next time, it'll be the xbox."

"Bullshit. You can't do that."

"Is that a challenge?"

You shake your head. "By all means, hell no."

"That's what I thought!"

You open your mouth to respond, but you're interrupted by a vibration in your pocket. Lalonde sent you a text.

"We will be here in several moments. I'll round up and say fifteen minutes."

Rose always rounds up. If she says fifteen, she means five. She used to catch you in some odd moments. She isn't the most considerate gal.

John is peering at the text over your shoulder. There's really no use in hiding it from him.

"I wonder who she's bringing?"

"Don't really care." You flip open your laptop, and he disappears. He'll probably rename all your songs again. Last time, he named them all "Teenage Dream". He edited the album artwork and everything, and you chewed him out for an hour.

You hear your guests before you see them, and that's when your guard goes up.

She brought Roxy.

Aw, shit.


	9. in which there are family discussions over beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my chapter are pretty self-explanatory, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing two chapters today to make up for the pause.
> 
> umu

Roxy, sitting on the floor across from you, popped open another can of beer. She downed a gulp and smiled pertly at you. "Davey, you've gotten even cuter!" Rose quietly groans from her spot on the loveseat and you're unable to escape your cousin pinching one of your cheeks.

"Yeah, Rox, good to see ya," you mumble and rub your sore cheek. Roxy is twenty six, five years your senior, and somehow is one of the top physicists in the university she works at in Brooklyn. "Why're you here?"

"Jus' giving-'scuse me, _paying_ Rosie here a visit." Roxy laughs and reaches her long arm up to ruffle your twin's hair. Rose easily moves away, escaping the affectionate gesture. "But anywaaaays..." She draws out the vowel for a good ten seconds and you simply wait. Typical Roxy. She's already had three cans. "Anyways... Rosie told me 'bout what's happened and gee, I hadta come!"

Good god. You're going to get some scientific lecture about how ghosts don't exist, and you're going to get it from _Roxy,_ of all people. Rose will get a special place in your mental hell. Maybe she'll be the one whose personality is sliced apart, dissected, and observed there.

"Look, maybe we can talk about this--"

"Shshshhhsuuuush." She presses a finger to your lips and leans close, close enough for you to smell the alcohol on her breath mixed with her perfume. She smells like someone somehow spiked the cotton candy at the state fair. "Family shecret-- secret, here." She leans back. Drunk state fair smell lingers. "I mean, seriously, Dave. You aren't that special. Rosie and I got it. Dickie got it. You obvs, logically, gotta got it. Er, have it."

Realization sinks in. "So, you're saying we're like... some late night tv show where people see dead people and get killed by them and shit." It's easier to say that, to treat it like a joke, instead of saying "ESP runs in the family, I'm stuck with this shit".

Roxy groans loudly, leaning back and slapping her forehead in a show of comically exaggerated exasperation. "C'mon! Not a single Strider-Lalonde's been killed of paranormal circumstances since like... ten years ago!"

That isn't very reassuring.

"Why haven't I known about this before?" you finally ask. Rose is the one to answer.

"You didn't show any signs when you were a child."

"Sometimes, few people born with the gene still don't have the sight or whatevs..." Roxy's voice trails off, as if she's afraid of what to say next. "But it can get like, triggered."

Rose's voice is infuriatingly gentle. "Usually by witnessing death."

You fumble to your feet. Nausea rolls over you. What does that sound like to John? "Oh, hey John! You died and now your best bro sees dead people 'cause he was with you"? You don't feel him with you at the moment, oh godohgodohgod--

Rose's hand clasps yours, and you find yourself being pulled down to sit next to her. She pulls You into a hug. You want to yell at her, to be indignant. Frankly, you're too tired. "I understand how much of a shock this is. It's cruel, I know." Roxy is suddenly squeezing your other hand, and you notice her fingernails are painted bright pink, as usual. The familiarity is comforting.

Passive-aggressive antics aside, you're lucky to have them both.

\---

Your name is John Egbert and wow is this the first you've been John Egbert?

Anyways that doesn't matter right now.

Your name is John Egbert, you are a ghost, and you are jealous.

You know it's stupid. But there Dave is, and he's upset, and you can't do shit about it besides rename his songs "sorry for ruining your life".

You feel like such a shitty friend. Seriously, what's the point of staying if you can't cheer him up? You're jealous of Rose because she's there, she can give him a hug and he won't flinch away, she can make him feel better, she's alive and warm and breathing.

Rose suddenly yanks away from Dave, shuddering. "It's awfully cold... is John here?"

A part of you longs to talk to Rose again, your pretty, smart, sarcastic, witty friend. However the part of her that wants her gone is stronger, and it makes you feel... frozen. Dave says you're cold, but you never felt cold until now. Ice runs through your veins, You want Dave to say no, John isn't here now, go away.

Both Rose and Roxy look visibly uncomfortable with the temperature drop, and Dave's expression remains neutral, "Sorry, guys. The AC acts up. John isn't in a social mood right now."

You freeze in place, but you still feel electricity in the air. He knows you're upset?

Rose narrows her eyes, and there's something on her face, in her eyes. It's that look she gets when she knows exactly what's going on, and needs to think about what to make of it.

"S'too bad," Roxy says. "I wanted to meet the kid."

"Well, I suppose we can catch him later, when he's in a better mood. Her head turns towards the coffee table where you-embedded and twined into wires and circuits, hide. Of you were alive, chills would have run down your spine.

"Well, do y'all want to stay for dinner? I'll order pizza if you like," Dave offers.

No.

_No, no, no no no nonono._

"No, it's fine..." Rose's voice is far away. "We've overstayed our welcome. Let's go, Roxy." She slings her black purse over her shoulder and carts Roxy being her. She casts another look back, before smiling. "See you soon, brother,"

"Don't be a strangerrr!" Rocy sang.

It's atrange, how easily everything went your way. It almost gives you sense of power.

You feel warm and satisfied as you appear in front of him, but try not to look too smug. "Hi again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I get to write Roxy more.
> 
> And I have problems with writing possesive john. once i start i can't stop.
> 
> weelo.


	10. in which pizza incites a heart to heart (with a side order of paranormal intrigue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys.

You are Dave Strider and John Egbert is sitting across from you. You've ordered pizza, and the box is already half-empty. Between the two of you, you could always finish a box over the course of a night. You, in your absentminded state, somehow forgot to get a small, not a large.

You apologized to John, who said there was no reason to be sorry.

He's unusually somber now, and it's not because of the pizza. His bright blue eyes are downcast and he stares at your table, tracing shimmering patterns on it with his pointer finger, only for them to fade away soon after. You finish your slice of pizza and lean forward, resting your weight on your forearms. "Yo, earth to Egbert."

He starts and manages a crooked smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. It's those little things, the small details that differentiate him from a very convincing copy that tug at your chest the most. "What's up, Dave?" His voice has an unusual hollow timbre and that forced, overeager cheeriness that always alerts you he's upset.

"What's wrong?"

He doesn't bother to say nothing is wrong. He knows you too well, you know him too well. "I... I guess I'm sorry."

You blink and tilt your head to the side slightly- the movement is so small it's nearly unnoticeable-- and cock an eyebrow, prompting him to elaborate. He's twiddling his thumbs, gnawing his lip, and he looks more small and scared and pale than usual. The same tug at your chest is harder this time. You reach out and pat his hand, pleasantly surprised to find he feels solid, at least at the moment. "Why are you sorry?"

His head snaps up, and the look in his eyes electrifies you. He looks angry, but the anger quickly subsides into sadness and he looks back down. His voice is hard when he speaks again. "I've... You heard what they said! You don't want this seeing ghosts thing, and because of me, you have it now. And..." he stops talking and looks down, and you finally can name the expression on his face- guilt.

"Dude." You squeeze his hand, and he doesn't move it away. You take that as a good sign. "Relax. I probably would have gotten it anyway." He opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it, letting you finish. "Besides," you say with a shrug. "It's not all that bad. How many people can say they have ESP?"

He smiles weakly. "I don't really think it's ESP..."

"Whatever."

He looks a bit more relaxed, but there's still something bugging him. You can tell by the little crease between his eyebrows, how tight his fists are.

"So, is that all?" you press. He averts his eyes.

"Mostly."

"What else is there, then?"

He looks uncomfortable. "There's no way we're dropping this until you get your answer, huh?"

You smirk and nod. "What do you think?"

He sighs and slumps his chair, pulling his hand away. "It's stupid."

"Everything you say is stupid, it won't make a difference."

He gives you a dirty look that doesn't last long because a smile is tugging at his lips again. "Well... I guess... I was..." he mumbles something inaudible, either on purpose or out of anxiety.

"Speak up."

"...Jealous."

What? Your curiosity is piqued, and your eyebrows raise up into your bangs. "You? Why would you be jealous?"

He exhales slowly and seems to deflate more doing so. "Don't laugh."

"No promises."

"Dave!!"

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

He sits up a little straighter, but he's floating a bit above the chair. He doesn't notice until his hair goes through the ceiling. "Ugh! Stupid floaty--" he drifts down and sits on the table. "I guess... I was jealous 'cause Rose got to comfort you?"

"...What?" You can't stop the small smile on your face from growing. "That's what you were worried about?"

"I told you it was stupid!"

You sigh and shake your head. "Dude, I'm sorry about that."

"I know it wasn't her fault!" His voice is loud again, and this time it's in your head, curling through your mind and ringing in your ears. It's entirely surreal, but it gets your attention.

"Chill, John!" You know it isn't the best response, but you have no idea what to say. He groans and buries his face in his hands.

"I-I just... we're best friends, but I wasn't even the one to comfort you. I'm causing all your problems, and I can't even..." his voice breaks and wow you didn't know that could happen to a ghost "I just want to hug you! I don't want to be a ghost, I want to be alive and real and completely solid and with you!" he hangs hi head and it looks like he would be crying, but there are no tears on his face.

He finally said it for the first time since he contacted you through your laptop. He's dead. 

He's not even pretending it's okay like before. He's dead and he's not okay, you're not okay, he wants to live, you him with you.

But really, all you can say is- 

"You are here." You reach for his hand, and squeeze it again. You don't flinch. You wonder if he's not as cold as usual, of if you've gotten used to it. "You've sitting right in front of me." You swallow the lump in your throat. "Honestly, John. If it weren't for you being here... who knows. I might be dead, too."

His eyes darken. "Don't ever say that."

"I--"

"Don't!" It's another shout that doesn't hurt your ears but your head itself it reverberates in your skull and rings in the very back of your mind

He looks down. "...Sorry." He sounds choked up. "I can't stand the thought of you... doing that."

You sigh and shake your head. "To he honest, neither can I. That shit is terrifying."

He says nothing, and neither do you. It's enough, sitting there quietly, the palm of your hand growing a bit numb from the cold and reminding you of the glass wall between you, and looking at the thoughtful, dreamy expression on his face.

God, it would be so much easier if you just didn't love this boy so much.

Yet you don't want that.

\----

You're wearing a jacket two sizes two large and rain plasters your bangs to your forehead. It's ten PM, and John is dutifully following your lead at your side, looking nervous. Really, there's no need for him to be. You're nervous enough for the both of you.

You're trudging through an empty parking lot to the local grocery store, looking for your mystery ghost man. "Remind me why we're doing this..."

"You jumped up while watching the Sixth Sense with me, proclaiming 'we should do that', 'that' pertaining to us putting ghosts to rest?" John offers. 

"Yeah, but at ten pm?"

"Don't ask me. I don't sleep."

You roll your eyes and lean against the building's wall, wondering if there were security cameras running. This is seriously a stupid idea. "This is seriously a stupid idea," you groan, and he frowns at you quoting the narration.

"Come on, Dave! Let's find the guy with the hole in his stomach, give him a pep talk or something, and send it on his way! It'll be easy."

"You're the one who constantly watches movies," you grumble. "You should know it's never that simple. And what was a guy like that doing, hanging around a grocery store? Who dies of being impaled while getting your milk and eggs?"

John shrugs. "Beats me. Maybe an accident with a really sharp carrot." The grin on his face widens at that.

"...I shouldn't find that funny," you grumble. "Anyways, I guess we find our way in...?" You start walking around the perimeter of the building, and raindrops keep collecting in beads on your shades and obscuring your vision, so you take them off and slip them into your pocket.

You turn a corner, and nearly slip on the wet pavement when you catch sight of a tall, hulking, figure standing motionlessly a few feet ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I'm pretty sure you can guess who the ghost is from this and the earlier chapter. Thanks for reading.
> 
> Wow, this is the chapter where the plot really starts, I guess...


	11. in which the author cant think of a witty title rn soz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave has a short chat with his mystery man.
> 
> Suggestive implications intentional, but nonexistent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg hi guys!
> 
> I'm really sorry for the delay, but I've started school and I got blocked u_u  
> Anyways, I'm going to make updates daily again, if I can manage. Thanks for being patient!

He's most definitely your Mr. Gaping Chest Wound (he really needs a name, you're running out of things to call him). He stands a few steps away, and you can't see his face in the dark. You can see the rain go right through him, just like John, who looks... well not scared. More like worried. The Huge Guy doesn't take notice of you, or maybe he does but doesn't acknowledge you. You look back at John, who's chewing his ectoplasmic fingernails. Ectoplasmic fingernails, yeah that wasn't a good one. "Here goes," you murmur. 

"Be safe."

You step forward, grimacing at your feet squishing in your sopping wet shoes, and raise a hand in greeting. "Hello."

Mr. Tall Dark and Manly doesn't move. You take two more steps, and you can see his face, the same sunken, pale face you saw a couple days ago. "Yo, dog. Talking to you. Hey, 'sup. You hearing me?"

His head moves, and suddenly his dark eyes are boring into yours with a strange, threatening intelligence that shows he's completely aware of you. 

"So... hi. Do you speak English? Or am I gonna have to use what I learned in grade ten Spanish?"

"You see me."

He stops you from going "hola", and he lifts his head. "Yup, I see you."

His face softens, and you realize he's a lot younger than how he appeared at first. Maybe your age, or a couple years your junior. "I thought it was a preposterous notion, but it appears someone has finally taken notice of me."

"Preposterous or not, here I am." you smirk and extend your hand out to him. He looks dubious.

"I hope you know I don't trust you."  You glance at him over your shades, and he stares at your hand, before tentatively reaching for it. Your fingers touch and you two awkwardly shake and chills run down your spine because he feels like he's made of solid, cold marble. The whole experience is akin to shaking hands with a statue. It's different from John, who feels just as soft as he did in life.

"Now, can we move somewhere I'm not getting soaked?" you manage to ask, and the fact that you're dripping wet and resembling a cat dragged through a sewer seems to convince him that sneaking you into the storage shed is the best course of action. He does so by walking through the door and opening it from the inside. He's so utterly emotionless about it, you can't help but wonder if he's smuggled people in before.

"I haven't," he says and you realize you had been rambling out loud. John is floating anxiously behind you two, unusually silent and even paler than before. He wrings his eyes and his eyes shine with concern. You wonder if your other paranormal friend sees him, or if he, for some reason, is invisible to him.

"What's your name," you say, flatly, and he stares a you with dull eyes.

"My name is Emmet," he says after a pause that felt too long. However you simply nod, feeling proud of yourself for not sarcastically prodding at him until you got it out of him. Probably not the best course for a paranormal investigator or whatever the fuck you want to call yourself.

"M'name's Dave."

"Pleasure, I'm sure." He says nothing after that, and you sit on a crate of what you think is baby food. The storage room is painfully dark, and you resort to pulling out your lighter and flicking it on. The glow flickering on both Emmet and John's faces is entirely surreal. Sometimes, it lights them, other times their visage is completely unaffected. John perches himself next to you, pressing close, and you don't mind the cold seeping through your clothes and spreading across your skin. Emmet simply stands in front of you, towering and silent and completely motionless. You wonder if he does this frequently, and if you'll have to wring all speech out of him.

Okay.

You can do that.

Your natural charm and people skills can't fail, nope.

"...You do know you're dead, right?"

Wow, strider, smooth. That totally segued into a possibly touchy subject. However, the ghost doesn't seem miffed. "Of course I'm aware. How could I not? I was certainly dubious about the idea at first, but..." his voice sounds incredibly small when he speaks again, and pure suddenly reminded that he's young, younger than you or John and wow you can't help but wonder what happened to him. "But it's been three years already."

"Oh," is your eloquent answer, and you shove your hands in your pockets. "Well, I can see you. Isn't that chill? I'm here to put you to rest and solve your unfinished business and get your ass to heaven, etc etc. You'll look good with a halo, you kn-"

"No."

For a second, you think he's simply finishing your rambling statement, but you realize it's a rejection and you look up, surprised. "What?"

"I said no. I need to remain here. Preferably for a prolonged amount of time."

You groan. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. If it was, he wouldn't be here. "...Well, what's keeping you?"

Good god, you haven't been interacting with new people in ages. You must be losing your touch.

You're afraid he won't say anything because he's giving you the dirtiest look and his fists are tight. However, he exhales (do ghosts even breathe?) and his shoulders lose their tenseness. You figure that maybe three years of not talking to anyone makes people open up. "...Natalie."

You manage a wry smirk. "Your girlfriend?"

He looks shocked at the idea. "Of course not. She's akin to my younger sister, though we aren't related by blood."

"Oh."

"I was eighteen, she was fifteen. I've looked out for her, ever since we were children. Her parents were always busy with their own affairs. It wasn't like they didn't care. They simply never had the time to pay their full attention to her. She's always been so small and energetic, and really too naive for her own good. I felt behooved to care for her being."

You nod slowly, mentally noting his manner of speech was overly formal.

"She was devastated when I died. It simply wouldn't feel right to leave her." He says nothing else, but you see a nostalgic glint in his eyes. You wonder if he's reminiscing. You can't help but ask another question. 

"How the hell did you die in a grocery store?"

He frowns, snapped out of his brief reverie. "You are incredibly tactless."

"I try."

He sighs deeply. "I didn't pass here. I died of infection from... this." He awkwardly motions to the hole in his chest. How did you forget about that? 

"Then...?"

"Why not haunt the hospital?" he finishes, and look down.

"Ghosts aren't confined to where we die," he says and you feel like an idiot. John most definitely isn't hanging around the highway. He's right here, with you.

"I'm here because she is. She works here."

"Natalie?"

He smiles, and you can't help but note that his teeth are crooked. For some reason it drives the fact he was once a person, just like you, home. His expression is immensely fond. "Yes."

You can't stay here any longer. You can't help him. Did you really think you could swoop around, saving lost souls or whatever other romantic notion you had? You tell him you'll be back (he doesn't respond) and you escape the shed, out into the pouring rain and you realize you are just so fucking cold. John is chasing after you, calling your name and asking if you're alright, and you run into the car and slam the door shut, turning the radio on full blast. John doesn't follow you into the vehicle. Either that or he does and stays quiet.

You suddenly realize why you're upset.

You're afraid that Emmet is John in a few years.

You're afraid John will be stuck here.

You're afraid because you're selfish enough to want him to be with you forever.

You're afraid because you're selfish enough to keep him trapped near you.

\----

TG: yo rose i got myself a question  
TG: open those pretty lil ears  
TG: im hitting you w my best shot over here  
TG: rose you there  
TG: you arent dead are you  
TG: roooose luhlonduh  
TG: ok i admit that was pretty fucking dumb  
TG: seriously im losing my creative touch  
TT: I wasn't aware that you ever had it.  
TG: finally you respond holy shit  
TT: I assume you were awaiting my response with baited breath.  
TG: you know it  
TT: I apologize, I was simply occupied with convulsing with surppressed laughter at your idiocy- excuse me, I meant your charming, tongue-in-cheek humor.  
TG: beep beep my lalonde bullshit to English dictionary says that means you think im dumb  
TT: What was your inquiry?  
TG: right no banter only business  
TG: so ghosts don't just park their ass where they die?  
TT: If you're asking if they only haunt the area of their passing, the answer is "it depends".  
TT: Souls that remain fixated, or angry about, or are in denial about their death usually do stay there. However, if they have an emotional connection to another place or person, they usually go there. After all, that means that most of their unresolved business and their strongest ties to the earth remains around you.  
TT: *the area or person they stay around. Silly typos.  
TG: are you saying john is emotionally attached to me  
TG: of course he is were best friends  
TG: dont turn this into another therapy session or into one of your late night soaps  
TT: I don't watch soap operas.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell: 
> 
> Emmet- Equius  
> Natalie- Nepeta


	12. in which john can't hold all these feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woo quick update
> 
> Off to school

Your name is John and your mouth is full of blood. You can hear Dave shouting at you, by you don't know what he's saying. You feel his hands and arms-since when did he get so strong- pulling you out of the car, and he plucks the shattered glasses off your face, throwing them to the side. You open your eyes. His shades are off, discarded somewhere, and he's leaning over you, his red eyes brimming with tears. When was the last time you've seen him cry?

Your head turns a bit, trying to find Jade. You whisper about her, and his expression darkens though he says nothing. Your stomach sinks. He's probably trying not to upset you. Instead, he cradles your head on his lap and strokes your hair, trying to soothe you. You can hear him say "John. John, I-it's going to be alright. Hold on, ok? H-help is coming. Just hold on, it's gonna be ok." It's gonna be okay. You tell him that, but he shakes his head and the tears in his eyes are starting to freely fall down his face. Dave Strider is crying, and somehow that surprises you, even now.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He murmurs sad things about not being able to save you, and your heart aches. That's not true. Dave has saved you so many times. He's always been there for you, always listened to your dumb jokes, always-

Fuck.

You reach up for his face, but you can't find the strength. You're so tired, you feel so small and light and bloodless. Instead your hands lift feebly and he seems to get the hint and take them. Your fingers twine. You have to tell him, you just realized it but you have to tell him, you can't just leave him! You lock your eyes with his. Neither if you are wearing eyewear, and you can read every emotion is his eyes. He loves you, too. You squeeze his hands. "D-dave..." you whisper and your head is feeling but your body is so heavy and you feel like you're sinking into the ground, down, down with blackness starting to fill you up

"John."

Your heart is fluttering in your chest and you're angry at it because it's pumping so hard and with each beat you can feel more blood gushing out and pooling beneath you and no no no fuck you don't want to die you don't want to leave him

 "I-I..."

You can't leave him like this. He's always been there for you and you always, so selfishly, just kept it like that. You're the worst, the absolute worst. You have to be there for him too. Death is shift ad unfair because you can't leave him lie this when you

"I love you, Dave."

You don't know how you manage to say that without your voice faltering, but his voice cracks and he whispers that he loves you, too.

You try to say that you always will, but your voice is failing you and a strange calmness falls over you. You can't leave him like this. In fact, you aren't going to. You're going to be with him again, soon.

The asphalt feels sticky, it feels like it's lapping at you and pulling you underground yet you feel so, so light at the same time. You don't want to close your eyes, so you keep your gaze fixed on his face, staring at the freckles dusting his cheeks or the brightness of his eyes and wow he's beautiful

It's time to take a quick nap.

\---

Your name is still John Egbert.

Dave is asleep.

You feel like a creep for watching him, but there's not much else to do! You yourself do not sleep. Even though you can move some things around, you can't turn on the tv or surf the Internet or anything.

That's okay, though. You like watching him sleep, and you're not even going to apologize for the implications of that sentence. You like watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, you like how soft his face is. You bet everyone looks younger when they sleep. Dave looks like he could be the thirteen-year-old your buried under the covers with and made pillow forts, lit by flashlights. He looks like the kid who climbed trees with you, the kid who got stuck on the highest branch and turned bright red when you burst out laughing before helping him down a good ten minutes later. He looks like the awkward, gangly teenager who wrapped an arm around you and let you cry on his shoulder after your break up with Valerie.

You want to touch him, and you don't know if you can. You reach out for his face and brush your fingers across it. He winces in response and your heart sinks. Really, you feel like you'll always be a world apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John bby.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK  
> NO REALLY  
> I can update regularly again. School has been seriously shitty lately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is really short and clumsily written, I just wanted to get something out there

Your name is Dave Strider and mother of fuck it's morning.  You realize that your entire body is covered with goosebumps, and you can see your breath curling out of your mouth. You turn awkwardly onto your side-holy shit that hurt sleeping on the couch is not fun-and see Egbert staring at you, his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. When he meets your eyes, his face breaks out into another bright smile. "Good morning, Dave!" His smile is bright enough to blind you and practically feel your fucking pupils shrink to compensate for the blinding light flooding from his teeth and okay this metaphor is shit you give up.

"Mornin'," you mumble, blinking the sleep out of your eyes and yawning widely. His smile grows, and you have no idea how that was possible. You smile back groggily, and you feel like you could just reach out and brush the messy hair out his face or pat his cheek or something. You don't. "Why'd you wake me up again?"

"Because, dumbass." John hovers a little closer so his breath ghosts (heh, get it?) over your face. You think that it smells kind of minty, like he just brushed his teeth. Did ghosts get bad breath? Probably not. Maybe he was doomed to smell like Colgate or Aquafresh or whatever he was using forever. "Are you paying attention?" he snapped, his voice growing stern.

"Uh, come again?" You curve your back in a long, drawn out stretch and you hear your spine popping. 

"You promised me you were going to start job hunting today! You can't live off of your brother's checks, and I am _not_ letting you sell the piano."

"Damn, there goes that backup plan."

You roll your eyes and head to the bathroom to take a shower. Hopefully the warm water is working.

You step out of the bathroom thirty minutes later, and you're automatically hit with the cold again. "Goddammit, John!"

"It's not my fault!" he retorts, and you snort and run to the bedroom to throw on a sweater.

"I'm gonna get weird looks from any of my future bosses for dressing like we're six months ahead," you grumble sullenly. 

"You're such a baby! Brush your hair." A brush narrowly misses your head.

"I already did!" you snap, kneeling down to pick the brush back up and self-consciously running it through your wet hair again. "I look fabulous, thank you very much."

"More like fagulous," John replies snarkily, and you throw the brush at his general direction, though it's not like it'll do anything.

"Alright, I'm gonna head out then. You coming with me?"

He doesn't answer, and you take that as a no as you head out the door.

==>Be the air.

You're not really the air! But you're light and thin, just like the air. You toe the line between being here and not. You're most certainly not solid.

You don't remember your name, not really. You know you had one, you know you were as human as the sad blonde girl you watch.

You don't know why she looks so sad. You've never seen her smile, yet at the same time you know exactly how it looks like. You wonder if you saw it as a human.

You want to see it again!

"Jade," you hear her sigh as she drifts to sleep, and it stirs something inside you.

==>Be the protagonist.

You are now Dave again, and you've been kicked out of a bookstore, a Radio Shack, and two CD stores. You really need to work on controlling your comments or you'll be banned from all respectable establishments. You're about to resort to heading to a nearby McDonald's, when you hear your phone blip in your pocket.

carcinoGenetist [CG] started pestering turntechGodhead [TG]!

CG: HEY.  
CG: WORD IS YOU NEED A JOB.  
CG: YOU FINALLY DECIDED TO GET THE FUCK OFF YOUR ASS AND BECOME PRODUCTIVE.  
CG: I MEAN.  
CG: GOOD FOR YOU, MAN.  
CG: HOPEFULLY THAT MEANS YOU'RE FEELING BETTER AND SHIT.  
TG: thanks for the concern   
CG: ANYWAYS.  
CG: I THINK I KNOW A GUY WHO MIGHT ACTUALLY TOLERATE YOUR SMARTASSERY AND FIND A WAY TO USE YOUR TALENTS.  
TG: youre awfully nice today  
TG: calling me talented and whatnot  
CG: MY HEART ISN'T MADE OUT OF GODDAMN STONE  
CG: BELIEVE OR NOT, I'VE  
CG: NEVER MIND, THAT SENTENCE WAS ABOUT TO DERAIL INTO NOWHERE.  
TG: anyways what were you saying about getting me a job like the beautiful human being you are  
CG: COME OVER AND I'LL DRIVE YOU THERE.

You don't know why you can't just get directions, but you decide it's been too long since you've seen Vantas and Captor, anyways.

You can't remember where they lived again, but you're sure you'll remember once you start driving.


	14. In which we get to see CG

==>Be the guy with no sense of direction.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have no idea where the fuck you are. It's kinda disconcerting. Your phone is vibrating with angry texts, and you don't bother to open it and check the entire deluge of obscenity-filled messages Vantas is probably spamming you with. It'll be good for some late-night reading later.

You suppose you should shoot him a message asking him what the fuck his address is, but you seriously feel kinda too proud to do such.

You mean.

Then it might spoil the laughs you can get from his messages later.

Goddammit.

==>This i going to take forever, can we see this Vantas guy while we're waiting?

Sure. Why not.

It's not like you have a _first name_ or anything.

That was sarcasm, in case you were too fucking dimwitted to work that shit out.

Your name is Karter Vantas, and you think you're about to burst a vein.

You offered to give your dickhole friend a job opportunity, not to waste your sweet time. And... you may be kind of worried about him. You swear, he's probably left his house once this whole month. His best friend died, and he let that take over his whole life. It's not like you don't get it. If Sam hadn't pulled you out of bed every morning, you might've holed yourseld up in your house too.

Of course, you weren't in as deep as Dave was-is. You really can't do anyhing for him, except send a text asking him where the fuck he is. You have the tendency to let your imagination take control, and you have a horrifying vision of him never getting here, of him driving off a cliff instead. That thought sends a thrill of dread through you, but it's not like you can do anything about it ~~_even though you want to_~~  when you're sitting here, in your apartment with your stupid roommate taking a stupid nap in his room.

You're about to send Dave another text with a considerable amount of insults to his intelligence when there's a knock on the door. Spitting out a "You are the only dumb asshat who couyld get lost traveling, Strider!", you slam the door open and feel a slight release of tension in your shoulders. The douchebag standing at the doorstep with his hands in his pockets is indeed Dave Strider. 

"I wasn't lost," he responded, stepping in and shurgging off his jacket. (Why is he wearing a jacket, anyways? The heat is sweltering. Even you have abandoned your turtlenecks for thinner shirts.)

"Sure you weren't," you respond, laying on a thick layer of false sincerity to your voice. "Just like you didn't get lost in Walmart."

"Shut up, that place is all kindsa big," Dave grumbled, slumping down into your ratty old sofa. "So where's this place, anyways?"

"Tough luck. It's closed for the day. Congrats, Dave. I try to help you out, you shit on the whole thing."

"Give a guy some credit, I haven't been over in ages."

"So you were lost!" you crow triumphantly, and Dave shoots you a withering look. You always seem to get a bit too into your arguments with him, but you seriously don't give a shit.

"No, I wasn't."

"You just outright admitted to it!" you snapped, irritated, and Dave let a grin slip at the rise he was starting to get out of you.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, y-" 

This is stupid.

You cut yourself off, and sit down next to him. "Anyways. You should just crash here on the couch and I'll drive you tomorrow." A strange look passes Dave's face as you say this, and you wonder what was wrong with that statement. He looks almost about to refuse. "What, do you have plans?" 

"No. Not really." The reply is short and faltering.

"Then what's your problem?" you press. 

Dave stiffens, and finally just nods, a motion directed more to himself than you. "You know what? Okay, fine. Might as well."

"Right, hope you don't mind the floor. There's a leak in one the rooms that we haven't gotten around to fixing." Samuel and you have been bunking, but there's no need to state things that might inspire unneccesary prodding.

"Where's Captor?" Dave suddenly asks, and you don't exactly feel comfortable with the way he had jumped to the subject your mind had just drifted to. Maybe because it reminded you it had been there in the first place. 

You scowl a bit. "He's sleeping. He was up last night working on some finishing some code. You know how it is. It's a miracle he even ate." Dave nods, an acknowledgement of knowing exactly what you meant.

"Anyways, let me pull out the bed later. I'm gonna order some pizza."

"Already got it. Why didn't you tell me Thtrider was coming over?" You grimace at the familiar lisp.

"Since when were you up?" you demand. Samuel stood by the bedroom door, leaning against the doorframe.

"For a while. I was waiting for the athinine bullthit part of the converthation to end."

"Please, for the love of God, stop using words with the letter "s" in it. You'll save all our eardrums," you groan with you head in your hands.

"I got anchovies," was his only reply.


End file.
